mute. A fool paying homage to one who could fall from the lofty heights in an instant, taking all in his wake with him.'
Bak better understood the troop captain's anger. The load he had to bear was heavy indeed. 'From what I've heard of Senenmut, when he sets his sights on a thing, he doesn't easily give up.'
Antef nodded, understanding him perfectly. 'Even now, a new coffin is being cut at a quarry north of Abu. Quartzite it is. Not as spectacular as the one before us, but more than adequate. A coffin fit for royalty.'
Bak eyed the officer thoughtfully. 'Why do you tell me this? You've made no secret of the fact that you don't trust me. Are you hoping I'll pass word of this outrage to the capital?'
'You apparently believe I could, without a qualm, slay five innocent people to repay Djehuty for an — incident from the past. Now tell me, Lieutenant, why would I slay them for a long-past offense, and plan to slay Djehuty as well, when each day that goes by the swine gives me greater reason to wish him alone a victim of his own transgressions?'
So great was the officer's anger, Bak could feel it in the air. Antef had made a point, he thought, a good point.
Bak and Psuro shoved the skiff across the strip of rich black earth. The flat-bottomed hull tore away the dry and cracking surface, revealing soil still damp from the fallen floodwaters. The slope steepened. The vessel got away from them and slid out of control down the slick bank. Its stern struck the water with a splash, showering them. They leaped after it and waded into the river to scramble on board. Psuro took up the oars while Bak sat in the stern with the rudder. 'User, you say he's called?' Bak asked.
'Yes, sir.' The Medjay eased the skiff into deeper water, added, 'He was a spearman back then.'
'I thank the lord Amon you found him.' Bak drew close a basket smelling of bread and braised meat and removed the lid. 'You've done well, Psuro. I feared all who survived the storm were gone, either living in a faraway place or in the Field of Reeds.'
Psuro rowed around a tiny island crowned with a single acacia. Other islands large and small abounded as far as the eye could see. The swift-flowing channels separating them, as often as not foaming over rocks hidden beneath the surface, would shrink or vanish as the water level dropped through the following months. The Medjay located a wide and smooth passage that promised to carry them north with a minimum of effort, shipped one oar, and held onto the other in case of need.
'User lives on an island near the upstream end of the rapids,' he said. 'He doesn't often come to Abu. I was lucky to find him at the market.'
'He's a farmer now?' Bak took an elongated loaf of bread from the basket, broke off a chunk, added a slab of beef, and handed it to his companion.
'Yes, sir. ILe raises geese and sells the eggs, mostly to the crews of ships either readying their vessels for the voyage upriver or unloading products from faraway Kush for overland transport north around the rapids.'
'Sounds an enterprising sort.' Bak recalled the unwanted gifts, the threat they implied. His voice sharpened. 'I hope you didn't tell him to meet us at our quarters.'
The Medjay, his mouth full, shook his head emphatically. 'I suggested Pahared's wife's house of pleasure.'
Barely able to understand, Bak dug two jars of beer out of the basket and handed one over. 'When?'
Psuro swallowed hard, clearing his mouth, and tipped the jar to his lips. 'He turned me down flat. I explained at first why you wanted to talk to him, telling him of the murders. He saw right away how unhealthy Abu and Swenet have been for those who survived the storm, so he thought it best he not tarry. As soon as he traded his eggs for whatever necessities he came for, he set sail for home.'
Bak applauded the man's common sense and understood his caution, but the delay was frustrating-and annoying. Just six days remained before Djehuty faced death. 'How long must I wait to talk to him?'
'We're to meet in the morning on neutral ground. On an island south of Abu, a place where men have, for many generations, left inscriptions on the boulders so no one will forget their passage across the frontier. He wants us nowhere near his home, fearing the slayer will follow us and add him to the list of dead.'
Does he think us so careless with other men's lives? Bak wondered. He quickly tamped down his irritation. After all, who could blame the man for an excess of caution?
Bak climbed out of the skiff and sent Psuro on to Swenet to find suitable objects they could exchange for User's knowledge. He stood briefly on the landingplace below the governor's villa, deciding where to go next, who to talk with, then plodded up the stairs. A small brown snake darted into a crack between rocks. A sparrow fluttered in an-overhanging acacia, chirping. About a third of the way up, a sound
… a whisper… something… nudged his senses and silenced the bird. He stopped, looked around, saw nothing. If not for the sparrow's continuing hush, he would have thought his imagination overactive.
He climbed on, faster, more alert. Another whisper and an arrow sped by, passing through the gap between his arm and torso, narrowly missing his ribs. He leaped off the stairway, flinging himself into the brush. The sparrow darted away. A third arrow struck the nearest step. The point snapped off; the shaft skidded across the stone and struck a spindly limb close to Bak's leg. The archer was reasonably skilled, he thought, but no expert would aim so low. Deciding a glimpse of the man worth the risk, he felt for his dagger, making sure he had it, and scrambled up the steep, rocky incline, shoulders hunched, head down, shielded by leaves that showered around him. Thin branches grabbed his hair and tore at his arms and legs. Another arrow sped by, striking the slender trunk of a tree. He thought he heard yet another, speeding through the branches whipping the air behind him.
Breathing hard, scratched and dirty, he peered through a screen of brush at the top of the slope. The arrows had come from the left, he thought, from Nebmose's villa or one of the houses in the town beyond its walls. Out of necessity, the angle had been steep, which placed the man on a high wall or the roof of a tall building.
Not a creature stirred. Not surprising. Men who attacked from ambush seldom remained in place for long. Whether their mission failed or succeeded, they dared not linger. As a result, they often left behind telltale signs of their presence.
Lest this assailant prove more foolhardy than most, Bak hunched over, darted out from among the bushes, and raced in zigzag fashion toward the governor's compound. He burst through the entryway. The guard, seated on the steps of the small gatehouse inside the wall, jerked his head up from his knees and blinked in confusion. He had been asleep. Bak doubted anyone could have passed through the gate without waking him, but he would not have been roused by an archer on the nearby wWls or rooftops.
Wasting no time on questions, he scanned likely spots for ambush. He saw neither man nor bird. Hurrying outside the portal, he trotted along the wall and turned into the lane that took him to the front gate of Nebmose's villa. The entryway was closed and barred, as he had left it several days earlier. He backed up a half dozen paces and took a running leap at the barrier, smooth-faced on the outside. The fingers of his right hand cleared the edge. He clung there for a moment, his digits cramping. Before he could fall, he thrust his body upward and caught hold with the other hand. Scrambling higher, he cleared the gate with his head and shoulders. He examined the visible structures, paying particular attention to the roofs of the taller buildings. When he was reasonably sure he was alone and safe, he heaved himself up the rest of the way, threw his legs over the edge, and dropped to the path inside, raising an impressive puff of dust.
'Hey!' someone shouted. 'Stop right where you are!' Bak started, swung around. He saw no one in the shrine or the garden.
'Spread your hands and legs!' The command came from around the corner of the house.
Praying the voice was that of a guard, praying he had not unwittingly walked into the archer's grasp, Bak obeyed. A man stepped into view, spear poised. The youthful guard Nenu. His face registered recognition, his mouth dropped open, and the spearpoint tipped toward the earth.
Bak breathed a long, deep sigh of relief.
Chapter Eight
'You're lucky he didn't shoot you, sir,' Kasaya said.
Bak gave the hulking young Medjay a wry smile. 'I can't tell you how fervently I thanked the lord Amon that
